Angel of Redemption
by Haha bye
Summary: You shouldn't have showed weakness. Weakness gets you tortured. Weakness gets you killed. You're a coward. You're weak. You. Are. Nothing. But, you realize that your torture can't compare to his. Oneshot.


**A/N: Hello, there. :D**

**This one-shot could be more than a one-shot. It has the potential to be. But, I'm a lazy bastard, so it's a one-shot. :D**

**This is dedicated to my buddy Vivid Tear. I think I wrote a darker one-shot than you! :D**

**It's scary that I can actually write something like this. **

**It contains torture of the body and soul.**

**Enjoy! :D**

**Disclaimer: I no own.**

**WARNING: This is a very explicit story and is not for the faint-hearted. It contains torture of the human body, in your POV. This means like, "You walk down a street. You feel sad." That POV. It makes you the one who's getting tortured. **

**This is rated T to begin with. If you think it should be rated M, tell me.**

**I read a piece of this to my mom and she said, "Yep. I knew you were gonna grow up and be a serial killer."**

**Thanks mom. :D**

Eyes.

When you look into the onyx orbs, you see the coldness of Antarctica's glaciers. They were as hard and emotionless as them, too. They had a glint to them that was either great intellect or great insanity. As you lay there in your own pool of blood, flesh and filth, your eyes trained on his, you decide both. Maybe insanity more than intelligence.

Face.

His jaw was set in hatred and disgust, and triumph. His lips were set in a sneer of pure, black loathing. Your blood and sweat and tears stained his smooth olive skin, the red making is midnight hair stand out. He thought you lower than the filthy excrement that came from his own body. You realize, as you breathe numbered breaths, he's right. Your value is lower than shit.

Body.

His foot was pressed into your abdomen; a sign of triumph. It was pressed in so hard and deep that if he took it off a crater would be there with the remnants of what used to be ribs. You could not scream anymore; it was impossible to groan; you had no way to express the pain. It was infuriating. He looked down on you with his seething eyes and his face of pure hatred; you would flinch at it if you could move. His body was rigid and unmoving, and as cold as his eyes. It would make you feel better if he showed some sign of tiring out. Heaving breaths or pausing the torture to rest. But he doesn't. He keeps on and on, and the fact that he does not lose energy makes you scream inside. He spits in your face. The saliva lands on the bridge of your nose and separates to go into each eye socket. The cuts on your eyeballs scream in pain.

The torture is impossible to compare with anything else.

It's your entire fault, though.

You shouldn't have shown weakness.

Weakness makes you taste your own blood in your mouth.

Weakness makes you feel sharp edges cut and slice and tear through your body.

Weakness gets bones shattered like the crack of a bat against glass.

Weakness makes you smell your own burning flesh as it sizzles and disintegrates.

Weakness makes you see yourself bleed out, helpless.

Weakness makes you hear yourself vomiting up organ matter, blood and bile, and taste the disgusting concoction.

Weakness makes you hear you heart beat die out, like now.

Weakness gets your tongue sliced out of your throat so the screams you've scream are the only way you can reveal the pain and agony you feel, as words aren't at your disposal now.

Weakness gets you killed.

Weakness gets you tortured.

Your last breaths are the ones that hurt the most, as your throat is raw and bleeding from the screams.

All the various holes you have spurt red liquid profusely. You would probably hear it gurgling if your ears hadn't of been ripped off.

You've done a lot to deserve this.

You've lived a terrible life.

The rape.

Women. Girls.

Men. Boys.

You had no limit.

You had no boundary.

The number of victims was nearing triple digits.

The murders.

Innocent people.

Old. Young. It doesn't matter.

Begging for their lives, like you've done recently.

Rivers of tears.

Words of redemption, pleading for the privilege to breathe.

If they were even old enough to plead words.

The stealing.

Taking whatever you want, whenever you want it.

Claiming what's not rightfully yours.

Taking from families with no money to spare.

The experiments.

Human torture, to name it fairly.

To see the limits of the human body.

To see the will to live, to survive, by putting it extremes of pain.

You're the experiment now.

You were merciless.

You were immoral.

You were sickening.

But, all through this you were a coward.

You were weak.

You were nothing.

This was proven.

But, as you look into your nightmare's eyes, you realize your torture cannot compare to his.

He shows no weakness.

Showing no weakness is a weakness.

The people who show no weakness are the most vulnerable ones.

It's like in Greek myths. The Achilles' Curse.

You seem invulnerable, but if someone just happens to find your weak spot, you lose.

Game over.

These people have more torture and vulnerability in their mind than you can imagine.

But at least his isn't a coward like you.

You breathe one of you final breaths. But you know it won't be the last one.

Death is a sweet, beautiful thing you've only experienced once, and you'll never have the pleasure of seeing it again.

This is your own personal Hell.

This is your everlasting punishment for what you've done on Earth.

You get tortured for days, and when you think it's ended, you come back, fresh and anew, everything intact, just to be tortured again.

He leaves, making you stay in complete blackness and shadows, hearing the other tortured soul in Hell. You cannot count the time. It is a luxury that is not possible. Part of the torture. You hear the agonizing screams of pain, unintelligible pleads of relent. But, the first time it happened, you realized it's not only the tortured souls of hell. It's the shrieks of the innocent people you've tortured. It's pleads of the people you've raped. It's the promises of the people you've killed. It sounds like sadistic music in your ears, and possibly the worst thing you've ever heard. You put hands on your ears, but it does absolutely nothing. You just want them to stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop, make it STOP-_

And then he came back, to torture you again.

The mental and emotional pain of your everlasting torture rivals the physical pain.

You are reduced to begging your own personal demon. You plead and shriek for him to relent. You ask him to stop the agony, to _please, please stop. _You are reduced to being one of your victims. You're a coward, and weak. You have put people through this. You liked to hear them beg, and now you're doing it. You are disgusting. You are filthy. You. Are. Nothing.

You wish he would scrape your eyes out so you would have to see yourself, or see him. You know the facial expressions he has are the ones you've used: merciless, unmoving, and shameless. He also expresses hatred and disgust. He knows that you're nothing, you're a coward, you're sickening, you're immoral, all the dark things about you. He expresses it all.

There's only one privilege you've gotten in Hell. You got to know your demon's name. You didn't know demons had names, but it's a luxury to know it.

di Angelo.

Of angels.

It's funny, because if you think about it, he's your angel.

He's also your personal, merciless Satan that makes you feel like this.

But, as you take your last breath, one of the never ending numbers of last breaths, he gave you everything you needed. Everything you've deserve.

You're Lucifer.

He's just the Angel of Balance.

Angel of Revenge.

Angel of Redemption.

**Whoa, dude. That was INTENSE! :D**

**Vivid Tear, are you backing away slowly from me now? I can understand why. :D**

**To point out the obvious, Nico di Angelo is a worker in the Fields of Punishment. The guy who's getting tortured calls it Hell because, as kind of hinted in the book, people from different beliefs and religions see different things than the actual Greek world. The guy who's getting tortured is just a random guy I made up who happens to be a very terrible person who deserves everything that happened to him. Nico did not torture him sexually, just physically and mentally. Although he raped a lot of people, he did not get raped, because for the purposes of this story, Nico di Angelo is not a homosexual. He's lucky I didn't make him get raped, because my hatred for rapists is very deep.**

**Again, I should probably go to an insane asylum for writing something like this. :D**

**Virtual cookies for anyone who can tell me a deep understanding and meaning of this one-shot. :D**

**Or you can just leave a review, and you can get a cookie. :D**

**REVIEWS ARE VERY APPRECIATED. ;D**


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